Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
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Someone’s hands grab me by the shoulders from behind to lift me from the ice.
It’s funny because what the hell am I doing lying flat on the ice?
I don’t remember falling, but my forehead feels like a cracked egg a la Humpty Dumpty, and as I come to a stand, dizziness spins the world around me.
There’s blood blurring my double vision, and I barely recognize the guy asking me if I’m okay, but his voice tells me it’s Sabien.
A couple of guys wearing shoes walk onto the ice and join Sabe to help me to the gate.
Someone I don’t know says, “Give Brody some space.” Then, under his breath, he mutters to Sabe, “What a shit-show. The fucking rookie phenom gets injured. I hope to god he doesn’t have a concussion. All hell will break loose.”
“What?” No one answers my question before I end up in a training room I don’t recognize, flat on the table. I close my eyes against the growing pounding in my head—and think—or try to.
Then it comes back to me like I’m waking up from a dream. This is the fucking NHL’s All-Star game, and we’re at the arena nicknamed The Fortress.
“I gotta get back out there.” I try to sit up, but the swift movement almost makes me vomit.
“Hold on, Brody,” Sabe says, pushing me back down without much force.
“I told you to watch out for the flashy lights, glitz, and glamour of Vegas, kid.
“ His voice is low as he leans in close to me, talking in riddles like he's some old sage. He's only six years ahead of me. I open my eyes and look at him. He grins. ”Looks like you made a rookie mistake. Don’t believe the bullshit hype about being a phenom.” He flashes a glare of accusation at the trainer who gets to work removing my helmet.
He prods at my head and face and wipes the blood away.
“What mistake?” They both ignore me, and I wonder if maybe I’m mute and don’t know it because my brain is being crushed in a vice by this killer headache, now throbbing out of control.
“It’s not me who labeled the kid,“ the nameless trainer says. ”It’s the big story of the weekend. I don’t want to think about what’ll happen if he can’t get back in the game. The media will have a field day and--”
“Of course I’m going back out there to play.
” I sit all the way up this time, gritting my teeth against the dizziness and shake off the trainer’s hand while I try to ignore the gut-roiling nausea.
Both Sabien and the trainer look at me, and I have their full attention.
Relieved that I’m not mute after all, I tell the trainer, “Just stitch me up and I’ll finish the game.
” I hold in the sudden lurch in my stomach and the stabbing pain that seems to pierce my eyeballs. Fuck.
The trainer shakes his head as he continues to examine me, using his thumbs to raise my eyelids and flash a light in my eyes. “Can’t do it, kid. That’s up to the doc. He’s on his way now.”
“Big fucking mistake,” Sabien says, taking a big bracing inhale of the sweaty training room air.
I want to shout what mistake, but the trainer pulls out a needle and stabs me with it somewhere near my eyebrow. I might have yelled I hate fucking needles, or the words might have got caught in my throat because I don't hear them.
Great. Now I really am mute.